Little Lamb Lost (8 page)

“It won’t boot?”

“Nope.” I tried to dry myself off a bit
with the towels.

He wrote something on the pad. “Sounds
like your hard drive.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. Are they
expensive?”

“About a hundred bucks for the drive,
and another fifty for the labor. Plus a diagnostic fee.”

Damn. That was almost two hundred bucks
I was hoping to put toward new countertops for the kitchen. Not to mention the
bill I’d paid for the tires. Oh, well. “Okay.” I agreed, biting my lip.

Seeing the look on my face, he gave me a
small smile. “Tell you what. I’ll waive the diagnostic fee and labor costs, and
only charge you for the hard drive.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know, but I’m a nice guy.” His smile
widened, but he looked away abruptly when I smiled back.

“Thanks.”

He went back to writing on the work
order. “I’ll need some info. Your name and address?”

I gave them to him. He had small, neat
handwriting. “Work number?”

“The Department of Human Services.” I
fished out a business card and handed it over.

His eyebrows went up. “You’ve been in
the news a lot lately.”

“Tell me about it.”

He wrote my work and cell numbers on the
form. Not looking up from his writing, he asked, “Is there a Mr. Conover?”

“No.” I tucked a wet wisp of blonde hair
behind my ear. Dragged a finger underneath my eye, and sure enough, it came
away black. My mascara was running.

He asked, “Did you bring your discs?”

“Discs?”

“Your software, to reload the machine.”

“I didn’t think about it. Do you need
them today?” I glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to get to work.”

“We’re open tomorrow from ten to five. I
should have your drive installed by then, if you want to bring them by.”

“Okay, I’ll do that.”

We shook hands as he thanked me for
coming in. Mine was wet and cold, his was warm and strong. “Let me give you a
card.” He took a business card from a black metal holder near the cash
register. Printed on it was the same logo I’d seen on the van outside, along
with the name GRANT SUMMERVILLE and the shop’s numbers and address.

I put the card in my purse and said,
“See you tomorrow, Grant.”

“I’ll be here.”

A Starbucks was next door to the shop,
and I decided a tall latte was in order. I bought a paper from a coin-operated
box outside the coffee house, ordered my drink, and settled down at a table for
a minute to wait on it. I scanned the first page, full of stories about the
latest terrorist plot and the president’s recent trip to Asia. The only local
news was about a drug bust on I-459. I read the list of obituaries. Michael’s
wasn’t there.

As the college-age girl from behind the
counter delivered my latte, I flipped to the editorial section. Three missives
about DHS helped make up the letters to the editor section. All three railed on
my agency, using words like “shame” and “tragedy” and the ever-present
“incompetent.” One ignoramus even called for Dr. Pope’s resignation.

Granted, over the years I’d known some
incompetent social workers. And it seemed that some mishandled case was always
dominating the national news. But some of us were quite able to do our jobs,
thank you very much, and do them well. I was one of them, or so I thought
before Tuesday. The letters stung and reinforced my fear that I’d missed
something.

Then it got worse. I flipped to the next
section. As I expected, Kirk Mahoney was present in full force. The oversized
headline asked: WHAT’S WRONG AT DHS? I took a sip of the hot house blend,
feeling the heat slide over my tongue and down to the pit of my stomach.

Chapter Seven

The headline of Kirk’s article filled me
with dread. Reluctantly, I read on:

For several years, the Department of Human
Services has been haunted by deaths of children under its care. Six years ago,
infant Annabelle Litton was shaken to death by her father, just days after DHS
opened her case. Then LaDarren Baker, a foster child, died from a suspicious
skull fracture. Now little Michael Hennessy can be added to this list.

I remembered those cases. The first
happened just before I was hired. Our director had been asked to resign, along
with the caseworker and her supervisor, since the case wasn’t investigated when
— or how — it should have been. In the second one, the foster parent was never
prosecuted but the worker in the foster care unit was reprimanded. Unfairly, I
thought. She was a friend of mine. I kept reading:

DHS’s new director, Dr. Teresa Pope,
vowed when she was appointed to increase the level of supervision over the
caseworkers and to reduce caseload sizes. She has stated repeatedly that worker
incompetence will not be tolerated. But can Dr. Pope guide this agency into
greater accountability and ensure the safety of the county’s smallest citizens?

Mahoney went on to outline Dr. Pope’s
background, from her Ph.D. in social work from Columbia University to her
previous job as the head of a local mental health center. Most of it I already
knew. Mahoney was a genius at leaving just a trace of doubt as to whether or
not she was qualified to do the job. Then,

While Dr. Pope states that she cannot
comment on Michael Hennessy’s death, she would like to reassure the public that
many of the reforms needed have been put into place. “Caseloads have been
reduced to a more manageable level, and a new licensing requirement has been
added for all employees. We still need more funding to increase salaries and
recruit more foster parents.”

Good for you, Dr. Pope. You go, girl. I
read Mahoney’s last paragraph.

These improvements, however, are too late
to help two-year-old Michael. The question remains why this child was placed in
danger, with a parent unable, or perhaps unwilling, to keep him out of harm’s
way. Dr. Pope asserts that an investigation is underway at the State level, and
should the agency be found culpable, disciplinary action will be swift and
exhaustive.

I reread the last paragraph again. I had
to hand it to Mahoney. The article was good. It made DHS sound competent, but
defensive. And it laid out just enough blame to be good reading. Damn him.

I folded the paper and threw what was
left of my latte in the trash. I fumed all the way to the eastern precinct to
pick up a copy of my police report. Then to the office, where numerous phone
messages waited for me. One was from Nona, confirming Michael’s memorial for
Tuesday at eleven a.m. at Harris and Sons. I wrote it on my calendar. I
returned a few calls to clients, then worked on my case notes from yesterday,
including documenting my meeting with Dee and Al. As I was filing the paperwork
in the Hennessy chart, I realized something was missing.

I’d never run a background check on Al.

I combed through the chart again, making
sure I hadn’t missed it. Ashley’s was there, so was Dee’s. All clear. Why
hadn’t I done one on Al? I tried to remember back to when I got the case. Was
Al married to Dee then? I couldn’t remember. If he hadn’t been her husband or
boyfriend at the time, I wouldn’t have done one.

After writing down some information and
putting the chart away, I took the elevator up to the fourth floor. Along with
the director’s office, the Adult Services Department was here, and I walked
through their area. Over the last four days I’d noticed more inquisitive looks
coming my way. Some people were discreet about it, shooting me furtive glances
as they passed my cubicle. Some were more overt, and many had stopped me to
express their condolences. The Adult Services folks were the same. After what
happened to the workers in the cases Mahoney mentioned in his article, I
couldn’t blame them for their curiosity about what was going to happen to me. I
wondered myself.

I came to what was once the customer
service desk of the former Barwick’s Department Store. Behind the glass sat Michele,
who ran our records department. She was a few years older than me, with short
brown hair and an air of organized efficiency. A computer and high-speed
printer stood ready on a built-in workstation behind her. Stacks of paper in
black plastic trays covered the rest of the surface.

“Hey,” she said to me, sliding open the
small window. “I’ve been worried about you. How’re you doing?”

“I’m okay I guess.”

“You heard anything about what the
State’s going to do?”

“Nothing yet.”

“By the way, I’ve got some bad news for
you.”

Like I needed that. “What?”

“My cousin found a girlfriend.”

So that was it. Michele was another
active member of the
 
“Conspiracy to Get
Claire Married.” She’d been trying to fix me up with her
forty-something-year-old cousin for months. She swore up and down he looked
just like Rob Lowe. Inwardly, I was happy to hear someone had snatched him up.

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

“She’s real nice, and they seem pretty
serious.”

“My tough luck, I guess.”

“Y’all would have made a cute couple.
What can I do for you?”

“I need a Registry check.”

She handed me an 8-1941 form. The
Registry was the State’s record of who had been accused of child abuse, and
whether the case was founded or unfounded. I filled in the little biographical
data I had on Al, mostly just his name, address, and age, and handed it back to
her. “Give me a sec and I’ll do it now.”

I waited, leaning on the desk and
watching her type all the fields into the computer. She hit enter and turned
back to me. “So, my cousin has this friend —”

I held up a hand. “Stop. I don’t do
blind dates.”

“Why?”

“Because they are always a disaster.” My
mind drifted back to the last blind date I’d agreed to, after graduate school.
He didn’t want a date, he wanted sex. It had taken me over an hour to extricate
myself from his wandering hands and call a cab home.

“Not always.”

“For me, always.”

The printer behind her made a little
click and a whirring noise. A second later it spewed out pages.

“Uh-oh,” Michele said, “It looks like
your boy’s had a few number ones on the Hit Parade.”

I closed my eyes as my stomach sank.
Damn, damn, damn. Michele paper clipped the sheets from the printer and handed
them to me. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

I stood at the desk and studied the
pages. At the top in all caps was listed the name of the alleged perpetrator.
Allen Pierce Mackey. He was forty-one. The last known address listed was
different from his current one. Hair: brown. Eyes: brown. Height: 5' 11".
Weight: 280. That was him all right.

Below that was the alleged victim.
Heather Lynn Mackey. Parents: Tina Lynn Mackey and Allen Pierce Mackey.
Heather’s date of birth was listed too, and after a quick calculation I worked
out that she was now twenty. I checked the date of the first allegation. She’d
been three years old.

Listed below were two columns, the codes
for what we had investigated in Al’s case and the findings. There were three
entries. The first said PHYSABCH UNFSUS. Physical Abuse of Child, and the
agency had ruled it unfounded but suspicious. Meaning that a child in Al’s care
showed suspicious injuries he denied causing, but the circumstances seemed to
be more than a mere accident.

Next was PHYSABCH FOUN. Physical Abuse
of Child, Founded. Meaning that the caseworker had solid evidence that Al had
abused this girl. That case was when Heather was seven. Another PHYSABCH FOUN
was the same year, when she was almost eight. What our system couldn’t tell me
was whether or not Al was prosecuted. Those records were kept by the justice
system, not DHS. There might be a footnote in the record, or there might not.

So, Al Mackey was a child abuser. And I
hadn’t known a thing about it.

Michele interrupted my reading. “Are you
going to want to see the chart?”

“Yeah.”

Michele filled out a blue 8-1705 form,
Request for Record. I signed it after she handed it to me. “You let me know if
you change your mind about my cousin’s friend.”

“Okay. I wouldn’t hold your breath
though.”

I took my blue form down to the
basement. The cavernous area that once stored additional inventory of clothes,
shoes, ties, and handbags in the 1930s was now filled to the ceiling with
electric racks of case files. Social workers weren’t allowed in, but instead
rang a buzzer at a door once we stepped off the elevator into the small
hallway. I hit the button and waited.

Dolly opened the door, as usual. She’d
been with DHS since God was a boy. Her hairstyle was a gray sixties bouffant
that never moved, and her clothes were from the same decade, dowdy dresses with
oversized collars. Her skin was paper thin and just as pale. She was sweet,
though, and I was fond of her.

“Hello, Claire,” she said. “What do you
need?”